


Spare the Rod

by ZaliaChimera



Category: Zombies Run!
Genre: Affection, Bondage, Bondage and Discipline, Catholic Guilt, Confessional, F/M, Femdom, Punishment, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Spanking, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 02:14:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/pseuds/ZaliaChimera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some things that Simon needs, no matter the price. Spoilers for Simon's backstory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spare the Rod

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Spare the Rod
> 
> Rating: R to be safe
> 
> Pairing: Janine/Simon
> 
> Warnings: Spanking, bondage, Religious themes and imagery. 
> 
> Spoilers: Spoilers for Simon’s backstory! S2SM18
> 
> Notes: Been working on this for a while! It ended up being not quite what I was expecting. It got darker than I was expecting and considering my description of it is basically ‘Catholic guilt and spanking as penance’ that is saying something XD
> 
> Summary: There are some things that Simon needs no matter the price.

“How does that feel?”

Simon can see her out of the corner of his eye, her fingers brushing lightly over his wrist, the point where his pulse runs close to the surface of his skin.

“It's fine,” he replies, and Janine tugs at the ropes holding him spread out against the heavy iron headboard of Janine's bed.

“You're sure?” she asks, sliding her fingers beneath the ropes. “No discomfort? Too tight? Numbness?”

“Jenny, it's _fine_ ,” he says. “It doesn't hurt, I can take a little pinch and can we just get on with it?” He doesn't mean for it to come out sharp with exasperation and irritation, but it does and Janine goes still and silent.

“Simon,” and there's the 'in charge of Abel Township' voice again. It's very distinct. “If we are going to do this, then we will do it by my rules. Am I understood?”

“Yes,” Simon replies, huffing out an annoyed sigh.

That earns him a sharp slap to his backside and _hell_ , she hits hard and then follows it up with a scrape of her nails right over where she'd hit and it makes him grunt in pain and shift in his bonds.

“I said 'am I understood?'.”

“Yes ma'am,” he says, his voice softening deferentially because she'll stop, she will, she's done it before. Leave him hanging and unsatisfied and hollow, even if they do end up fucking that night.

“Better,” she replies and there's that touch of steel to her voice, the one that makes him shiver in anticipation. Her hand gentles though, rubbing over the stinging spot where she'd hit him, soothing it. “I won't be responsible for hurting you by rushing through this.”

Simon gives a strained laugh. “Thought hurting me was kind of the point.”

Another smack, not even close to what he needs, mores the pity. She sticks to her rules, his Jenny. “Pain within acceptable limits, Simon,” Janine replies, following it with more of those soothing strokes, punishment and forgiveness. “But something like this could cause permanent damage if handled improperly. Something that I am sure you're keen to avoid.

He sucks in a nervous breath. Yeah, yeah, that's plenty to get him to settle down for her. And injury, a _permanent_ injury, something that'll stop him working out, keeping fit. No, he can't risk that. “Yeah,” he agrees, hoping that he manages to keep his fear out of his voice, “let's avoid that.”

“Of course,” Janine says dryly, her hand making another idle pass over his skin, then another, starting to warm him up with what's almost a massage, her fingers kneading into his shoulders and back and arse. “You remember your word?”

“Neon,” he replies, a grin curling his lips at her soft snort.

“I should have known,” she says, amusement clear in her voice. “And I can trust you to make use of it should you need to? No macho masculine pride getting in the way?” She reaches around him to pinch a nipple, a playful tweak that makes him gasp at the brief flare of pain followed by spreading warmth.

“Yes!” he says sharply. “Yes! God, Jenny, I need this more than my pride. You know that.” Like she hasn't already had him begging at her feet before, all pride gone.

“Good,” she says, and leans down to press a light kiss against the back of his neck.

“I found something today,” she continues, her hands still roaming over his skin. “Something special. Something just for you.”

“Oh?” Simon asks, and it surprises him, the catch in his voice, the anticipation.

Janine steps away for a moment, leaving him cold and alone, but then returns. She rests a hand against his arse, squeezing hard. That's it for a moment, just a touch, and then something smacks hard across his buttocks, rocks him forward onto his toes. It drags a startles noise from him, more surprise than real pain, his eyes going wide. “That's a _ruler_ ,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at her.

“Yes,” she agrees and holds it up in front of him, a smile playing about her lips. It's one of those old fashioned wooden ones, the kind you give to kids in school. The kind he'd got whacked with when he'd sinned in some way he didn't really understand yet. Spare the rod and all. “I thought it seemed appropriate,” she adds, dark eyed and smiling, the light casting her into sharp angles of shade and shadow.

She raises it up to his face, taps it lightly against his lips and he kisses it like he had the Cross once, his eyes closed and reverent. For a moment she presses up against him, close against his back and he can feel her breath, the rise and fall of her chest and the press of her breasts as she shields him from the darkness.

Her shadow looms over him when she steps back, wavering a flaring around him and he thinks he might have gone a little mad over her, wings in the corners of his eyes.

Her fingers linger even when her body doesn't, drifting slow and gentle down along his arms, over shoulders and the curve of his spine. All the more of a shock when she brings the ruler down on his arse hard and sharp enough to make him cry out and pull at the ropes holding him.

“Does that feel good?” Janine asks, curling a hand against his hip to pull him back . The sting softens into a low burn, but it's not enough. Not yet. Not by far.

“Yes,” he gasps, white knuckled grip against the headboard. “Jenny, please. I'm ready.”

She's silent for a long moment and then her hand twists into his hair, tugging his head back to look at her. “Count,” she says. “Ten for questioning me.”

His whimper is one of pure need.

The next strike falls and there'll be no more stopping now, not until she's satisfied. Thank God.

“One,” he says and god she's good at this, lands it right over the last one, a stripe of bright pain on his skin.

“Two,” and it's lower this time, against the backs of his thighs and he swears he can smell wood and beeswax, like the desk in his nan's study he'd been bent over when he'd been bad.

“Th-three!” is ground out, the breath stuttering harsh from his lungs, legs spreading as much as they can while bound to encourage her, to feel more. He _wants_ this.

Four and five and six, they all come in a rush, stripes on naked skin until his backside and the tops of his thighs are one expanse of heat. Simon sucks in a deep breath, holding himself still and steady and ready for the next, the moment dragging out until he wants to sob from the anticipation.

The ruler comes down with a crack hard enough to drag a soft cry from him and Janine strokes the flat of it across his skin lightly, waiting.

“Seven,” he grinds out after a moment, remembering his voice no matter how strained, and Janine's hand strokes against his abused skin in a cruel reward. Her nails dig in for a moment, scratch over his skin and he swears he can feel her leaving marks, perfect nailprints to match.

Eight lands high, the tops of his buttocks and nine follows quickly after and she stops, she stops, she stops and he can hardly stand it and then the last stroke falls.

“Ten!”

It stops and he sags in his bonds, panting harshly and his pulse hammering. Janine's hands are on him, arms wrapped around him as she presses close once more. It makes his arse ache and throb where she's hit him, but she feels too good for him to complain.

“Good,” she says, nuzzling against his hair, damp with sweat. “You're doing so well for me, Simon.”

Simon huffs a soft laugh, shoulders shaking with it. “What am I doing? I'm just standing here getting spanked.”

“You are truly impossible,” Janine says, a sharp note entering her voice.

“Like that's anything new,” Simon replies. He tightens his grip on the headboard, watching the tense and flex of his fingers with a distant sort of fascination.

“If you're trying to goad me, Simon, it won't work,” she says firmly and her touch is maddeningly gentle. It skims down his chest and over his stomach, the briefest touch over his cock and then firmer against his thighs, feeling out the places where he's most tense and taut and soothing them. She grasps his chin, turning his head so that he can see her. “We play by my rules, or we do not play.”

“I- I know Jenny,” he says, brow creasing in frustration at his inability to make things work. The wrong words come most easily. Always have. He tries to pull away but her grip is firm and he's too stubborn to use his word for something like this. She knows that. She knows too much.

“Then why do you keep fighting me?”

“If I knew that, then I wouldn't be here,” Simon replies and Janine goes still, her eyes widening for the barest fraction of a second before the surprise is gone. He swallows, ducking his head and she lets him, settling for stroking a hand through his unruly curls, thumb running down along the hairline. It's gentle and that's what breaks him. God knows he can take enough of a beating, but it's care and comfort that gets him in the end. “I've always been like this,” he says darkly, his knuckles turning white where he grips. “I've always been a stubborn bastard. Can't even remember the number of times I got rapped with a ruler like that at school or at home 'cause I could never keep my mouth shut.”

“Oh Simon.”

“I don't want pity,” he spits, jerking away from her touch. “I want... I-” He's never known what he wanted. Except that one thing.

“Salvation.”

Simon jerks back upright, staring at her, lips parted in shock. She raises an eyebrow at him. “That's it, isn't it? Salvation, forgiveness. Penance.”

The word lingers on her lips, a pretty damnation and he wonders how long she's known. She always knows more than she tells. Simon sucks in a shuddering breath and nods, his entire posture defensive. Janine smiles and cups his cheek, tilting his head to look at her once more. Her eyes are dark and warm and she leans in to kiss him lightly.

“Confess your sins,” she says, her voice low and husky in a way that sparks heat right through him.

He moans. “Fuck, Jenny.”

Janine trails her hand down his back to squeeze his arse again, reawakening the burning sensation from what she'd done earlier. She doesn't speak, doesn't need to and Simon slumps forward, tongue darting out over his lips.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” he begins, the words, worn smooth with time and repetition, sticking in his throat. “It's been... god... an apocalypse since my last confession,” he says, hysterical laughter bubbling up within him. “I've committed mortal sins. I'm a liar and a blasphemer. I lust and I act on it.” He feels breath puff against the back of his neck at that. It makes him smile, gives him the push to continue. “I'm prideful and vainglorious and I- I-”

He pauses for a moment, swallowing back bile before he continues, damning himself if only she knew. “I'm a coward,” he manages, voice cracking slightly.

Her lips press against the back of his neck, saying something he can't figure out. Maybe an apology or a denial of what he knows to be fact. He's been told so his entire life. Maybe the Hail Mary murmured against his skin but he's never asked, never needed to ask if she's any kind of religious.

“I will administer your penance,” Janine says and the words drag nails down his spine.

“Yes,” Simon moans, almost a sob, “ _please_ Jenny.”

 

She steps back, leaves him cold and bereft and abandoned. And then she hits him. The ruler snaps against his flesh with an audible crack, staggers him for a moment. Then another, and another, the burn spreading slowly through his skin and his blood and his unholy flesh. He counts the strokes under his breath, a whisper of contrition, and each cry she drags out of him leaves his voice hoarse and ragged.

“Have you repented?” Janine asks after ten and he swears he can feel the marks of each blow written across his body. She strokes his sweaty hair from his brow and brings a bottle of water to his lips. He drinks greedily, the water spilling down over his chin.

“I need more,” he says when he's swallowed his fill, glancing up to meet her eyes. “Please.”

Concern flickers in her eyes for a moment, shows in the firm press of her lips before she nods. “Five more.”

“Ten,” he says quickly.

Janine grips his chin hard, her thumb pressing against his lips. Simon flicks his tongue out against it, tracing the whorls and ridges there, enjoying the flush of heat it drags from her. “The penitent do not set the penance.”

His breath catches, stuck in his throat and he nods, protest dying on his lips. He swears he's trembling, not so much from the whipping but just the way she looks at him and the words she says.

“I- yeah. Sorry,” he manages to get out, voice strained. He just- he _needs_ so much.

Her lips ghost over his, a brush of breath before she releases him and leaves his jaw aching. He works it a little and the next blow takes him by surprise. It makes him jerk, crying out as the pain spreads and he can't tell if she's hitting harder or if he's just tender from earlier.

Another and it's easier to scream now, to cry out as each blow hits and then with the third something cracks and breaks and shatters within him. Too much, it's too much, too much death and deceit and that hollow feeling trying to swallow him whole. It leaves him reeling, bent over and gasping for breath, eyes burning. He sucks in a breath in the seconds between blows and then it leaves him in a harsh sob, and another and another and he doesn't notice when the blows finish, his whole body shaking.

“It's alright, it's alright, Simon. That's enough.” Janine's arms wrap around him, her warmth pressed against him. She just holds him for a long time, her lips pressed against the back of his neck while the sobs work their way through him. When he's finally breathing again, dragging in horrible, shuddering breaths, she loosens the ropes, her hands moving confidently over the knots. All he can do is slump forward, bent over so he can lean his forehead against the cool metal of the headboard.

“Come on, Si,” she murmurs, and slips beneath his arms to nudge him up. He leans heavily against her as she hustles him towards the bed and he slumps heavily down on his front and buries his face against the pillow. Janine leans over him, fingers combing through sweaty hair. His skin feels clammy and cold, even where it burns.

There's silence and he hates it but there's nothing to say. He just focuses on breathing while Janine's fingers dig into the knots in his shoulders and the aches in his wrists. “What's going on in that head of yours, Simon?” she asks, her lips brushing against the shell of his ear. It startles him. More than being whipped had. He shifts a little until she moves and settles on the bed next to him. He tries to turn away, hide his face, but she pulls him back. She's pretty strong, his Jenny, tucks his head against her side, arm curling warm around him.

“I look like an idiot,” he murmurs, managing a watery smile.

“Not really,” she replies, no humour at all in her voice.

“I've not cried like that since... a really long time.”

“We have plenty of things to cry about these days.”

He laughs, his voice raw and harsh. “You can say that again. That's my life now though. Death and monsters and fucking baseball bats to the skull.”

“Is that what you want to be punished for?” Janine asks quietly, as matter of fact as ever.

The question makes him go still, holding his breath. It would be so easy to say yes, let it go, let it all go. But she deserves better than that. She always has. “Some of it. Some of it's... older. Catholic guilt and all.”

“You never struck me as particularly devout,” Janine says, and she's smiling when she looks down at him.

“Oh, I'm not. Never really believed. Not all of it. But... I was raised that way. And there's always that niggle, y'know. Back of my head. Won't shut up.” He says it like it's a joke. She sees right through him though. She usually does. Her expression is thoughtful as she leans down to brush her lips against his forehead.

“How far would you have let me go if I hadn't stopped?”

The change of topic makes him start and he tilts his head back to meet her gaze. “As far as you could.”

She closes her eyes for a moment, breathes in sharply and then looks back at him. “I will never go that far,” she says sharply and for a moment he wonders who she's trying to convince. “I can't give you want you need if I can't trust you, Simon. It doesn't work that way.”

“What if that is what I need?” It comes out desperate, his eyes wild.

“I won't be the rod you break yourself on, Simon. I can't be that.”

“I- I'm sorry. I didn't- I've never done this before.”

“Being worked over like this?” she asks.

“Trusting.”

She's silent for a moment and then leans down to kiss him, tongue pressing against his lips until they part and he allows her access. It's like sweet water after drought and god, he wants this, wants to get used to it. Wishes the tangle of his brain would let him.

When they part, Janine's fingers linger against his cheek. “Trust works both ways. You need to trust that I can give you satisfaction. And I need to be able to trust that you won't let me overstep. I have seen people injured doing this, because of inexperience and lack of trust. I do not want this to happen.”

Simon snorts, shakes his head. “Pretty sure the zoms'll get me first.”

“I mean it, Simon,” Janine says sharply, a dangerous note to her voice.

“I- I'll try,” he says, entirely grudging. “Help me.”

Her expression softens slowly and she nods, seeming satisfied with that answer. “How do you feel?”

“Sore,” he says, giving her a lopsided smile. He relaxes slowly, now the worst of it is over. Heartfelt discussions have never been his forte. “Tired.”

“If you weren't a little sore, than I wouldn't be doing my job properly,” she says with wry humour.

“And you're always good at your job,” Simon replies with a wide yawn, and he nuzzles against her side, tongue flicking out to taste the salt-sweat of her skin. “Can I sleep?”

“Of course, Simon. We'll talk more in the morning.”

“Or we could have athletic, gymnastic sex.”

“Simon, if you can move in the morning, I will be very surprised.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Pragmatist.”

It's actually Janine who drifts off to sleep first. Simon feels it when her breathing evens out, the steady rise and fall of her chest.

“Oh Jenny,” he murmurs against her skin. “I wouldn't want to be broken by anyone else.”


End file.
